Monsters

Sail Away

Secrets (theholders.org version)

The Holder of Secrets is dead.

It's no secret that he died, for at the moment of his death, no more secrets can be kept. The knowledge enters everybody's mind and floats among the debris of their life experiences. The reason for his death is no secret either, for with the knowledge of his passing comes the knowledge of its cause: the weight of carrying all the secrets in the universe has crushed the Holder's mind. Yes, even Holders can have their minds destroyed. As if the Object is paying its last respects to its Holder, the name of Father Brian O'Shea drops and ripples in the babbling din of thoughts and memories that can no longer be kept out.

-----------------------------------

I find myself in a familiar churchyard looking at the weathered edifice of a tiny cathedral. I remember the many times I entered the church, seeking solace, attending mass, witnessing a baptism or marriage, or paying my last respects to the departed. I remember often seeing Father O'Shea enter the confessional to assume his post. In hindsight, a priest receiving confessions being the Holder of Secrets is rather fitting.

In my mind, as well as in the communal mind that the death of the Holder created, I start to realize and understand things that were open secrets, things that everybody knew but never acknowledged. Things like why bread was sold at half price at closing time (Fresh Baked? Think again.) or what certain nursery rhymes really meant (Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall...).

I start walking towards the forest at the edge of town.

Other secrets start skittering in. Personal secrets, public affairs, and even the secrets of things that have no life in itself, like governments and institutions...

Mr. Smith had an affair with Ms. Johnson. My mind is suddenly flooded with the memories of their trysts and alibis.

My body aches and my soul is weighed down under the pain of the beatings and the despair Mrs. Chan carried as a battered wife.

The creature sighting at the lake was a hoax; its photographs were fabricated. My/his heart beats with elation as I/he realize the success of my/his actions.

Beep, beep, beep, beep .... said the machine. The infamous dictator of that Latin-American country has been braindead for months, yet the machine keeps the body alive. Beep, beep, beep, beep ....

In the dying bank where I keep my money, many hands are feverishly feeding the shredder, trying to wash themselves of guilt in this modern Pilate's basin. Shredded paper, shredded lives, pointing the accusing finger even in its death throes.

As I enter the forest, the babble of secrets begins unraveling the weaker minds, yet strangely leaving the minds of the insane untouched. I start to lose my own sense of identity as I lose track of which secrets are my own and which belong to someone else.

I become rooted in the middle of the forest as the final, most deeply hidden secrets start to emerge, the secrets everybody hides from their own selves:

Rosalinda, the socialite and life of the party, does not want to be left alone to face her own demons. They torment her with her fading beauty, with the futility of her wealth, with her constant loneliness.

In his dreams, a little boy is always lost, trying to find his way. In his mind, a giant is walking the earth, crushing everything in its path. In truth, George, the black sheep, wants his absent father to take notice of him as he looks for the source of his missing comfort, wanting to destroy that source of unending pain.

Then I turn and look at myself.

And realize.

The awful truth.

The darkest secret I've kept from myself: I've been the Holder of Secrets' Object all along. I look deep into my "memories" and realize they were never my own but borrowed and pasted together from the secrets of those who strayed too close. I myself have nothing. I am tabula rasa.

A black cloud swirls in my vision, accompanied by the sound of a million flapping wings. Secrets, like crows, are coming home to roost. I raise my arms to ward them off, but my arms freeze as bark and leaves start growing on them.

In desperation, or perhaps defiance of my fate, I shout, "Where do secrets draw their power?"

Instead of echoing back my words, my voice responds, "From fear do secrets draw their power."

Fear sprouts with every leaf: fear of losing this short life of borrowed memories and thoughts, fear of the void, the nothingness beyond death or rebirth, in truth, back into an Object of no memories, no identity, no self.

As the bark closes over my mouth, as darkness and nothingness close over my eyes, I scream out one last time, "Where does fear draw its power?"

My own voice replies, before silence reclaims its place, "From secrets does fear draws its power."

Secrets at theholders.org

Secrets

The Holder of Secrets is dead.

It was no secret that he died, for at the moment of his death, no more secrets can be kept. The knowledge entered everybody's mind and floated among the debris of their life experiences. The reason for his death was no secret either, for the with the knowledge of his passing came with the knowledge of its cause: the weight of carrying all the secrets in the universe has crushed even the holder's insanity. And in afterthought, as if the Object is paying its last respects to its Holder, the name of Father Brian O'Shea dropped and rippled in the din of the babel of thoughts and memories that can no longer be kept out.

You find yourself in a familiar churchyard looking at the weathered edifice of a tiny cathedral. You remember the many times you entered the church, seeking solace or to attend mass or to witness a baptismal or marriage or to pay your last respects to the departed. You often remember seeing Father O'Shea enter the confessional, to assume his post. Very apt indeed, a priest receiving confessions as the Holder of Secrets.

In your mind, and in the communal mind that the death of the Holder created, you start realizing and understanding things that were open secrets, things that everybody knew but never acknowledged. Things like why bread was sold at half price at closing time (freshly baked every day!) or what certain nursery rhymes really meant (Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall....)

You start walking towards the forest at the edge of town.

Other secrets start skittering in, personal, public, and even secrets of things that have no life in itself, like governments and institutions:

Mr. Smith had an affair with Ms. Johnson and your mind is filled the memories of their trysts and alibi.

Your body aches under the pain of the beatings while your soul is weighed down with the despair Mrs. Chan carried as a battered wife.

The creature sighting at the lake was a hoax, its photographs were fabricated. Your/his heart beats with elation as you/he realize the success of your/his actions.

Beep, beep, beep, beep .... said the machine. The dictator of a Latin-American country had been brain dead for months but the machine keeps the body alive. Beep, beep, beep, beep ....

In the dying bank where you keep your money, many hands are feverishly feeding the shredder, trying to wash themselves of guilt in this modern Pilate's basin. Shredded paper, shredded lives, point an accusing finger still.

Your shopping list include salt, black pepper, garlic, rosemary, onion, flour and vinegar. The seven secret herbs and spices are ordinary household spices easily available from your local supermarket.

As you enter the forest, the babble of secrets begin unraveling the weaker minds, strangely leaving the minds of the insane intact or at least untouched. You start losing your own sense of identity as you lose track of which of the secrets are yours and which came from somewhere else.

You become rooted in the middle of the forest as the last and deeply hidden secrets start to emerge, the secrets everybody hides from their own selves:

Rosalinda, the socialite and life of the party, does not want to be left alone to face her own demons. They torment her with her fading beauty. They torment her with futility of her wealth. They torment her with her constant loneliness.

In his dreams, a little boy is always lost, trying to find his way. In his mind, a giant is walking the earth, crushing everything. In truth, George, the black sheep, wants his absent father to take notice of him, as he looks for the source of missing comfort, as he looks to destroy that source of unending pain.

Then you turn and look at yourself.

And realize.

The awful truth.

The secret that you have kept from yourself: YOU ARE THE OBJECT ITSELF. You look deep into your "memories" and realize they weren't your own but borrowed from and pasted together from the secrets of those who were nearby. You yourself, you have nothing, you are tabula rasa.

A black cloud swirls in your vision, accompanied by the sound of a million flapping wings. Secrets, like crows, are coming home to roost. You raise your arms to ward them but your arms freeze as bark and leaves start growing on them.

In desperation or defiance of your fate, you shout, "Where do secrets draw their power?"

Instead of echoing back your words, your voice comes back, "From fear, secrets draw their power from fear."

Fear sprouts with every leaf, fear of losing this short life of borrowed memories and thoughts, fear of the empty, the nothingness beyond death or rebirth, in truth, back into an Object of no memories, no identity, no self.

As the bark closes over your mouth, as darkness or nothingness close over your eyes, you scream out one last time, "Where does fear draw its power?"

Your own voice replies, before silence reclaims its place, "From secrets, fear draws its power from secrets."

Secrets at theHolders.org

Mac is Dreaming

Mac is dreaming.

In Mac's dream, SilentKiller-121 walks the white pavements of Alberta, port town of the kingdom of Rune-Midgard. He walks the clean avenues, amid the sound of seagulls, ocean waves and a marimba band playing in the distance, looking for something.

Suddenly he was there, at the familiar fountain in front of the weapons and armor shop. As he tapped the Kafra girl's shoulder, he was surprised to see that it was Iris manning the Kafra station at the fountain, wearing the standard cute Kafra girl/french maid uniform.

"Hello, Iris", was all he could think to say.

"Hello. The Kafra Corporation is always glad to help you. How may I be of assistance", Iris replied.

"How are you, Iris? It's been a long time."

"Hello. The Kafra Corporation is always glad to help you. How may I be of assistance", Iris repeated.

"Let her be. She's not into you", a voice spoke, just outside his vision.

SK-121 turned to face the voice. It is Solomun, the Priest. They were sitting by Geffen's fountain, south of the Tower. It is raining again in Geffen and SK-121's face is getting wet. On the fountain's pool, rain drops bloom on the surface, each drop a singing chime of sadness, while wind blows a fluted sigh in refrain.

"Heads up people", called Solomun, "incoming".

Toukou-Kitsumi, the Wizard, suddenly called out, "Storm Gust !!".

The squadron of blue-colored High Orcs froze in their tracks and SK-121 slashed at them. And slashed. And slashed until he was too tired to lift his arms. All around him were the fallen but one still remain. The monster was too big to see the whole for the jaws alone filled his horizon. In one gulp, the monster swallowed SK-121 whole.

Mac looked down the empty tube of the "L", listening to the roar of the train rolling on the tracks. Outside, the cityscape flowed by like a tilted banana split. Barack Obama motioned him to the door as the train stopped at a station.

"The way ahead will not be easy, son", Barack Obama said as they stepped out of the door of the serpent/train/huh? before it slithered/rolled away, "but change is never easy".

At ground level, the train station loomed overhead like the ribs of a fallen gigantic beast. Mac looked for the sky but the station and the surrounding building blocked his view.

"Son, we can't see the sky right now but we know it is above. We can't see the sun", Barack Obama continued as they walked towards a fountain statue surrounded by a pool, "but we know it is there because we see the light reflected".

Then Barack Obama stood at the fountain's edge, in front of Odin's statue in Prontera Square and began a speech.

"I have a dream", Barack Obama began, but SK-121 interrupted, "Isn't that Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech?".

"We all have dreams, son, we might even share a few", Barack Obama said, "I know your priorities are different but we all have dreams. Don't be afraid, I want you to have the all best in life, son".

SK-121 turned away and Mac was sitting on a couch beside Tyra Banks. Mac was trying to get Tyra Banks to notice him but Tyra Banks turned away and disappeared. Mac walked up to Kristen Dunst but he couldn't catch up. Jessica Alba gave Mac a dimpled smile but as he approached, she put on her nun's habit and was suddenly surrounded by countless children. Then they all faded away.

And Mac was alone.

Alone was Mac and....

"There, there, sweetie", said Michelle Obama as she touched Mac's shoulder. Mac sat on a chair contemplating the flowing water of Al de Baran's river canal. A mandolin and string quartet gracefully play the flowing theme of Al de Baran from a stage near the front of the Clock Tower.

"I hurt", Mac said, as he stared at the river. The river sings a flowing violin solo under the South Bridge accompanied by mandolin eddies splashing around the bridge support. Michelle Obama placed her hands on both of Mac's shoulders, her sad face reflected on the flowing crystal water.

"Am I being punished", Mac finally asked.

"No sweetie, it was just never meant to be", Michelle Obama replied. She then took SK-121's hand and lead him through the West Gate to Luina. As they stood over one of the bridges in Luina, Michelle Obama said, "The river flows where the river flows. Sometimes the flow is rough, sometimes the flow is smooth, but wherever the river flows, it gives life".

Then Michelle Obama said,"Don't be afraid, I want you to have all the best in life, sweetie".

Wanna Be Free!! started playing as Mac launched himself into a perfect swan dive. The splash of the river water was exhilarating and Mac began to kick to the rhythm of the trumpet singing of Wanna Be Free!! . A dolphin, its face sunny and cheerful, joined him as the power chords chorused in. Mac felt a burst of intense joy as they swam together, for he was no longer alone. They swam together in the flow of crystal notes. With great joy, Mac launched himself into the air.

And Malia and Sasha Obama grabbed both of Mac's hands and pulled him along on the beach towards the rising sun.

"Come and see", they invited Mac. Mac faced the rising sun with Malia and Sasha Obama. The sun's rays grew brighter and warmer until ....

Mac opened his eyes. His MP3 player/alarm clock was playing the closing strains of Wanna Be Free!! as the warmth of the dawn's sun embraced him. The cobwebs of sleep broke from Mac, like bursting bubbles from last night's beer. After he finished his morning ritual, and still finding time to spare, Mac booted his grey colored personal computer and wrote in his page at his internet social network site:

"Last night, I dreamed that I went on a date with Tyra Banks".

Midgard Urban Legends

Aceline and her classmates sat in a circle in the middle of their classroom. It was homeroom and their free time. And they were bored.

Then Aceline said, "Mon frère said something the other day. It was something that happened to a cousin of the uncle of his friend. This cousin of the uncle of his friend, mon frère said, met a strange girl named Dandelion. Dandelion's family have just arrived in Geffen from far away and kept to themselves.

Now, this Dandelion girl was really ugly and deformed and the other children didn't want to play with her. But this boy, who was the cousin of the uncle of the friend of mon frère, was a kindhearted sort and he often took the time to play with her. Throughout the summer, this boy was Dandelion's best friend.

When autumn came and the leaves started turning brown, Dandelion came to visit the boy and said that it was time for her to go away. Before leaving, she wanted to give the boy a gift, a crown made from the flowers of the common milkwort. Touched, the boy quickly looked around for something to give in return. Finding nothing suitable, he saw a large bunch of dandelions, the girl's namesake flower, blooming in a patch at the garden. The boy made a crown from the patch of dandelions and placed it on the girl's head as she placed her crown of milkworts on his head. With that, they said their farewells.

A few years later, the boy was surprised to receive a summons to the embassy of a very powerful kingdom. The crown princess of that kingdom wanted to see him. He was more surprised to see that his friend Dandelion was the princess. Princess Dandelion was so touched by the kindness of the boy that she had made him a noble in her kingdom. In the dinner held in his honor, Princess Dandelion honored the boy by letting him sit in the high seat of honor. After crowning him with a jeweled circlet that looked like a sparkling crown of milkwort flowers, she proclaimed him a lord of her court.

"So you should be kind to people you meet", Aceline said, "as you do not know if they are nobles from far away".

"So that's the new version of the legend", commented Mlle. Verte, then she continued, "you students should know it too, it's the legend or myth of Daniel d'Eon. Now, Mlle. Geffen, would you tell that story to us, s'il vous plaît", but Aceline Geffen was suddenly tongue-tied.

"Very well, mes étudiants, I shall tell you that legend as I remember it from my own student days, and no M. le Blanc, I wasn't there at the fall of Glast Heim."

"A long time ago", the teacher, Mlle. Sofija Verte began, "at the end of the Silver Age of Man, just before the fall of Glast Heim, the gods and goddesses still walked on Midgard but no longer openly, only disguised.

One day, the goddess Freya walked in the form of a little girl outside the gates of Geffen. She had been minding the business of men and women, looking to and fro, and watching their schemes and movements. As she sat outside the gates, a little boy came to her and asked her to play with him.

At first she said 'no' but the boy persisted until she gave in. They played a while until sunset and the boy asked her if she would play with him again the next day. She said 'no' but the next day she passed by and found the boy waiting for her. This went on everyday until the harvest season ended and Freya felt that she had seen all she needed to see and learned all she needed know about the schemes and plots of men and women.

When she and the boy said goodbye, the boy shyly asked for a lock of her hair, as keepsake of their time together. The girl-Freya acceded to his request. As they parted, she asked the boy his name. It is Daniel, he said, and with that they said their goodbyes.

Years later, in the aftermath of the fall of Glast Heim, Freya went to the ruined city to inspect the outcome of this contest. As she entered the palace courtyard, she saw familiar features on the corpse of a young man. To her dismay and sorrow, it was Daniel, the boy with whom she had played in Geffen all those years ago. As she moved to touch the battered shell that remained of her human friend, she saw his left hand let go of something that he had been protecting at his heart. It was a locket and in the locket was the lock of hair she had gifted this frail human friend.

And with that, something broke inside Freya. For just as the humans had been arrogant and prideful, she had realized that the gods themselves had been arrogant and prideful. As Freya touched the lock of hair she had given her human friend, her tears started to fall. When the tears touched the hair, the hair became a plant, and this plant is what we today call Freya's Hair.

When the Orcs came and saw this sight, their battle-lust were quenched and their hearts moved in sympathy and compassion. The Orc army carried the grieving Freya, and the human corpse she clutched and wouldn't let go, to the Orc Village. There, on the high seat of one the the Orcish great halls, they sat the human who brought a goddess to tears. Taking an Orcish Sword, Freya cut her long beautiful hair and braided it into a circlet to crown her human friend, swearing to powers greater than gods, to never again let harm come to Midgard and its peoples in pursuit of her petty whims.

It was said that after that, all the gods and goddesses stopped interfering on Midgard and as proof, Daniel's body never decayed as it sat on the high seat of the Orcish hall.

That is why they call the tallest mountain in the Orclands 'the High Seat' and that is why they call the small hill sitting on the "lap" of 'the High Seat', Daniel d'Eon or Daniel the Eternal".

The school bell rang at this convenient moment and Mlle. Verte dismissed the class. She watched from the windows of the classroom lost in thought and memory to a time, several years ago:

Capitaine Sofija Verte was leading a squad of Geffen's 2nd Expeditionary Division in a surgical strike deep within the Orclands. As they entered one of the many halls in search of the gateway to the Orc Dungeons, they chanced upon a strange well-kept building that the Orcs themselves avoid. And deep within the hall was a boy seated on the high seat, eyes closed as if asleep. And on the boy's head was a crown made of flowers of the common milkwort, also known as Freya's Hair.

Holder of Ragnarök Online version 2.0

Holder of Ragnarök Online version 2.0

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house (or just any internet cafe) in which you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of Ragnarök Online". A "don't bother me" look will return your request and with a scowl, the person manning the front desk will say "wait a minute" and then type a few words on the keyboard he/she is using. After which, he/she will brusquely say "follow me".

You will be taken down a hallway filled with glass doors, in front of which, chairs have been strangely placed. The doors seem to open to nowhere, as they are black as night. The guide will seat you in one of the chairs and then press a button that you have not noticed and he/she will say "please wait until it is ready". You wait. And wait. In what seemed to be an eternity but was only a minute on your watch, you stare at the blackness. Then the door opens.

On the other side, the world suddenly shifts and all vision smears into white. You find yourself in the middle of an avenue of a busy medieval city where everyone is wearing clothes from the middle ages except you see an occasional cowboy or cowgirl in the crowd.

Your feet will take you to a girl wearing a white apron over a dark brown blouse with short, puffy sleeves. As you approach, she takes out her handkerchief from her white apron and wipes her glasses before facing you.

Ask her the question, "what is it all about".

Incongruously, she will begin to sing, in a melodic style from a long time ago, of a deep yearning for things that are not. The song will tell stories of heroes and villains and everything in-between. It will rise high to the mountain peaks guarded by dragons and dive deep beneath the ocean waves where strange creatures dwell. It will describe caves and crypts filled with restless dead and demons waiting to devour all who enter. It will describe a tower built to the memory of an ancient hero filled with sentient fragments of that hero's shattered soul, defenders of that ancient relic.

As she sings, you also hear a male voice speaking into your ear. You turn but you do not see the speaker. His voice is sweet as honey and smooth as silk. He speaks as if he is your best friend with your best interest in mind. He speaks of wealth and riches and power in this world. He whispers conspiringly of the awe such things bring to those who behold them. He wonders how your friends and fellows will marvel at these objects and marvel at you, the master and owner of these rarities.

The girl wearing the white apron pauses her singing as she pierces someone behind you with a glare. Then she continues.

The song continues, telling of battles, sacrifices and trials, woven with sweet threads of fellowship as well as the bitter wires of betrayal. Finally, the song concludes about honor and dishonor, and about mirrors and masks.

As the girl falls silent, the male voice returns. In the same smooth, sweet tone, he promises you everything this world has to offer, so much wonder, so much wealth, so much power. In return, for nothing is free, a very, very small price to pay: you must bow down before him and worship him. It is only a game after all, your seeming best friend reasons.

The girl keeps silent as she hands you a crystal slate with a simple message glowing on it:

"Is the truth within?"

That crystal slate is object number xxx. The path you choose is up to you.

----------------------------------
The Holder Series on theholders.org

The Holder Series Thread in RO Empire Forums

Post Script: I did not write the Holder Series nor do I have any connection to the original series. I read a reprinting/reposting of it in the forums of RO Empire and decided to write something in the same style using a topic that the original writers might not have any idea about, which is Ragnarök Online, a MMORPG developed by Gravity Co., Ltd. and published by many companies worldwide.

I do not have intention of causing ill-will and hope that my readers understand that this is a homage to a wonderful series rather than a rip-off of its content. I've tried my best to make it darker but, from my point of view, the story didn't become darker despite minor rewrites.
---------------
Note: The message on the slate wasn't my idea. Someone on theHolders.org thought of it. Kudos to him/her.